


Friends

by Teland



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Introspection, M/M, Romance, movies - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-05-15
Updated: 1998-05-15
Packaged: 2020-12-09 16:31:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Rutger Hauer, cinnamon floss, and a first time.





	Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CiCi for beta!

John F. Byers crossed off another day on his internal   
calendar. Two thousand, eight hundred forty-seven days.   
Nearly eight years since Mathilda

//take me money and run Venezuela//

had divorced him. Nearly eight years since he had gotten   
laid. He supposed there was really no reason that, this,   
too, couldn't go into one of his encrypted journals along   
with all the other musings, rants, and effluvia of his   
daily life that made up his entries. However, beyond the   
endless RPGs and the hours of Japanimation, the most   
popular means of Time Suckage 

//Who coined that term? Was it Floyd... must've been... him   
with his Faith No More obsession and unfulfilled drive to   
musicianship... How dusty *is* that bass these days?//

for himself and his two companions

//And how *did* that happen, anyway? When did we become   
integral to each other's lives? Are we even individuals   
anymore?//

were the good humored attempts to break into each other's   
diaries... nothing like finding new fodder for the passive   
aggressive mockery of another day at the Headquarters.

Byers opened his 

//oh so neat, John...//

beard kit and trimmed the aggressive hair just below the   
left side of his chin that always grew so much faster than   
the others. It was always a conflict to do so for him, the   
warring impulses to 

//perfect//

neatness and the fierce and somehow primitive pride he felt   
at the rebellious follicle's urge to ambition creasing his   
forehead a little further with each brisk snip! of the   
scissors. 

//I need a life.//

"You still look like a narc, Byers."

The voice came as a shock, and John was deeply irritated at   
the fact that its not-quite-nasal grate had the (presumably   
desired) effect of making him jump. 

"Even in my Hopalong Teddy 

//complete with chaps//

pajamas? In any case, *you* still look like a hopeless Bon   
Jovi fan, lost in time..."

Byers wondered if Langly had ever twigged to the fact that   
the main reason he kept the beard 

//Lots of people have weak chins, after all...//

was so he could retain the illusion of blandness in his   
expression. He had been scared, if only a little, and he   
preferred to conceal the fact. He had a baby face under the   
hair, and it hid nothing at all. Langly may not have been a   
prize himself but there was something

//strange//

about the hazel eyes, something that gave the other man the   
appearance of being a vessel for the arcane. He smirked a   
bit at the thought,

//So long as said arcana hails from the realm of elves and   
robot cars...//

and continued his morning routine, reaching for the floss.

//Before *and* after brushing. Always cinnamon, always   
waxed.//

He closed his eyes to gargle with the Plax, and when he   
bent to spit in the sink he found himself in contact with   
something strangely warm and giving. There was a truly   
horrifying uncoiling in his belly, which made it hard to   
decide what the most dignified reaction to this invasion of   
his personal space would be. As such, he stayed as he was   
for a long moment before rising to meet Langly's eyes in   
the mirror.

"What are you doing this afternoon, Byers?"

//Huh? That isn't what you're supposed to say...//

"Well, I, uh-- nothing, actually. Why?"

"Lost Picture Show is doing a Rutger Hauer retrospective...   
granted, there's a lot of pain there, but Blade Runner's on   
at three. Thought you might be interested."

It was disconcerting to feel the other man's presence yet   
have only the cold and somehow false reality of his image   
in the toothpaste- spotted mirror.

//Tch. Doesn't *anyone* clean but me?//

John wondered if it would have been socially acceptable to   
hold another man's gaze so directly if they were face to   
face. He caught himself narrowing his own gaze in yet   
another futile attempt to pry apart that *otherness* in   
Langly’s eyes into something manageable, and abruptly shook   
off his observations. As usual, everything else in the   
mildly cragged face was bland.

"Sure, why not?"

"Cool. We'll take your car."

//Of course.//

The younger man turned to leave.

"Frohike coming along?"

"Nah, Vicky's came in today. He plans to devote the   
afternoon to a search for the perfect gift for Tasty."

John couldn't help but smile at the old joke of their   
nickname for Scully. The bad-little-boy thrill of using   
such an inanity to describe a woman who could probably kill   
a man with just a well- aimed eyebrow... well, you had to   
appreciate the absurdity. Besides, it was a far more   
comforting thought than that of an afternoon alone with   
Langly in a darkened theater.

******

"Sweetarts? I can feel *my* teeth decaying, Langly."

"You've got a real oral fixation, you know that?"

"I--" 

"Besides, if there's a substance less palatable than that   
machine urine so optimistically titled "Butter Substitute,"   
I certainly haven't heard of it."

"Machine urine? Oh, *lovely,* Ringo."

//What *is* it about Freudian references that make them so   
universally embarrassing?//

"Well, John Fitzgerald..."

Byers winced at the cumbersome name and focused on his   
maligned popcorn to hide it. He had, after all, started it   
with the Ringo business.

"... *that* yellow with *that* particular stench?"

"Hmm...? Oh. Anyone ever tell you that you pay way too much   
attention to bodily fluids? Are you trying to share   
something about your personal life?"

The older man walked on into the tiny theater, relishing   
the empty space at his side that so eloquently illustrated   
his small victory.

//Water sports. Ends any conversation.//

The Lost Picture Show was a good place, he decided.   
Burgundy carpeting, pale golden

//don't go there//

floor lighting perfect to guide you to your seat, without   
that harsh white runway quality inescapable in the   
mainstream movie houses. It was, surprisingly, only a   
quarter full, though Byers supposed that 3 p.m. on a   
Thursday wasn't quite the best time for a full house. As it   
was, he was able to secure his favorite position,

//Left section, right in the middle, aisle seat//

though he always felt a twinge about taking those. Byers   
had a vague and niggling memory of his father telling him   
to always save those for latecomers and single people.   
Single people... even as a child the thought of being so   
unutterably alone that you were forced to go to movies by   
yourself had bothered him deeply. 

//There is no situation so sad as being alone in a crowd of   
happy couples and good friends.//

John shivered a bit, and only belatedly remembered to stand   
so Langly could get to his own seat.

******

"This is the best part."

John nodded absently and took an ill-advised munch of his   
cold popcorn. His companion had said that at least twelve   
times, about everything from those first eerily perfect   
shots of smoke rising through rain, to the infamous   
raincoat scene, to Isidore's oddly poignant interaction   
with his animatronic creations. He'd grown accustomed to   
the brush of soft hair on his cheek, the gleeful fanboy   
whisper at his ear that carried hints of sugar and faux   
citrus... and he'd had to agree each time. And *this*   
time... that kiss of death, so eagerly accepted... well, it   
was rather affecting. 

The theater was air conditioned; too much so, really. Even   
through his 

//Ever-present. Christ, I *do* look like a narc.//

suit jacket it was uncomfortably chilly and John edged down   
in his seat and pressed a little closer to Langly. Yet   
another reason to be grateful for friends, he thought.   
Pure, unadulterated creature comfort. He could see the   
glare from the screen on Langly's glasses, knew the other   
man's eyes were on him, but John couldn't bring himself to   
study their depths again. This was, after all, the best   
part.

******

"HQ or do you want to head back to your place?"

"Hmmm... HQ's fine, but I do need to get some stuff from my   
apartment. Where are you headed?"

"Headquarters, I guess, but we can swing by your place   
first."

"Cool."

Langly poked under his seat and was noticeably pleased to   
come out with John's CD caddy. 

//You'd think he didn't do the same thing *every* time he   
rode in my car... Ah well, taking joy where he can find it,   
I suppose.//

Oh, it was a great movie, all right. One of his all time   
favorites. But damned if it didn't always put him in a   
mood. Langly seemed to be aware of the fact, or at least   
his eventual choice of music seemed to be geared to it. The   
soundtrack to "The Piano." The music itself was melancholy,   
but beautiful just the same. And *that* was a movie that   
ended well. The darkness of the music was an excellent   
counterpart to the action onscreen, acknowledging love   
without ignoring the inherent weaknesses and darkness of   
the characters. He found himself humming along and smiling   
wistfully. When he glanced over at the other man he saw a   
small, secretive smile, but refused to stop humming long   
enough to acknowledge his irritation.

******

Langly's apartment was small and cozily cluttered, but   
still very clearly little more than a way station. John   
knew his own place was exactly the same, just another   
storage room to hold on to things whose importance was   
remembered only at those moments of momentous decision   
during Spring cleaning. Perhaps worse, without all the   
mess...

//The echo is the worst...//

"Don't you *ever* clean, Langly?"

"Orally fixated *and* anal retentive... have you considered   
counseling?"

"Just because I like a room you can *walk* through doesn--"

"Why are you like this, Byers?"

//*That's* not your line...//

There was an ease to the sniping between them. After all,   
you have to really *know* someone to be able to snipe at   
them with any degree of efficacy. They would bicker for a   
while, something more interesting would come along, and all   
manner of disturbing thoughts could be happily ignored for   
a while. But this... this was different. 

John finally looked over at the other man, and was shocked   
to find he had closed most of the distance between them.   
Those eyes were on him again.

"Wh-what?" He cleared his throat. "Like what?"

Langly kept coming, moving until they were face to face in   
the apparent epicenter of the chaos. John looked down and   
away.

//Interesting that all this stuff seems to form a rough   
spiral... I wonder if he's noticed?//

Abruptly, there was a hand on his jaw, and he was eye-to-  
eye with the other man. John had forgotten what it was like   
to watch a

//lover's//

person's pupil dilate and it wasn't very difficult at all   
to watch the muddy hazel be inexorably eclipsed, and ignore   
the wicked grin.

"I *thought* so."

"Wha--"

Sugar and citrus... no, that wasn't quite right. It was   
acid and it *burned*... it made his mouth ache in sympathy   
and did he really eat an entire *box* of those things and   
that tongue it was darting and striking and he could really   
get accustomed to this oh god hand on my...

He bucked into the soft palm cupping him and gasped,   
opening his mouth wider, and Langly used the opportunity,   
diving in deeper and making John sway on his heels. A wiry   
arm was instantly supporting him, fingers darting up to   
play with the short hairs at his nape before dancing down   
his spine again. The other hand was swiftly divesting him   
of his brain cells along with...

"Jesus!" The feel of trousers puddling around his ankles   
was shocking enough to make John break the kiss, and he   
stumbled dangerously for a moment against the arm still   
around him before it was pulled away.

"Ow."

Byers couldn't even begin to speak, and only looked a   
question at the other man.

"Beard burn. But I have to admit, I could get used to the   
taste of butter substitute."

"Huh?"

"Don't worry about it."

And, with that, Langly dropped to his knees before John's   
incredulous eyes and tucked his fingers into the waistband   
of his straining briefs. He thought he should say something   
at this point, do something at the very least, but his arms   
appeared to be paralyzed and in another moment he was   
helpfully lifting one foot at a time and then standing   
there, ridiculously naked from the waist down. 

"Nice, Byers... I gotta admit I've thought about this for a   
while..." A lap at the leaking head. "... but you're always   
so..." An all-too brief sucking kiss. "... buttoned-up..."   
A nip at the base that brought him close to howling.

"Please..."

And the teasing was cut off like a switch. John wondered   
dimly what was in Langly's eyes at that moment, but the   
thought died hard when the younger man engulfed him to the   
root and sucked. Byers could feel his knees buckling, but   
Langly held him steady by his hips, a maddening grip that   
restricted his movements to impotent little thrusts that   
did nothing to satisfy, not like

a dozen mermaids in some Caribbean pool stroking and   
teasing and never in his life had it seemed like his entire   
being was so centrally located... no arms no legs just a   
rock hard cock being worked and worked and he could see   
himself all of him disappearing and reappearing but that   
was impossible because there was no him aside from his cock   
and it was all so sweet and so damned harsh and when a hand   
stealthily skittered over his entrance all those fucking   
impossible colors that only appear on movie theater candy   
and the occasional particularly virulent Chee- to made   
perfect sense...

When John came to he was on his knees, head lolling to one   
side. He opened his eyes to find himself cradled by Langly,   
fey little face warmly amused, childlike innocence marred   
only slightly by the bit of white on his chin. It wasn't to   
be borne. Byers dove for the other man and licked him   
harshly, feeling a much-too-soon twitch in his nether   
regions at the taste of himself on another man, and letting   
his tongue rove over the shock-slackened mouth before   
taking him in a kiss. 

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Oh, it was, but..." It felt like the other man was burning   
stone beneath his jeans, and the hiss Langly made was quite   
satisfying, really.

"Yeah?"

"What about..." A squeeze. "You?"

"I do have a bedroom... somewhere..."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go."

"Yeah..."

Langly stumbled on the way to the bedroom, and Byers heard   
him mutter something that definitely sounded like:   
"Clean... must... clean."

It was good to have friends.


End file.
